


One More Time with Feeling

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Children, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 11:20:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4744388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Porthos?” he whispers. Porthos knows what’s coming and he still isn’t prepared for it, still isn’t prepared for the way his heart leaps up for just one moment. </p>
<p>“Yeah?” he murmurs, because even in this he would not be able to deny Aramis anything. </p>
<p>“Do you want to have a child with me?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More Time with Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> JL gave me this request/prompt (for portamis having children together) alllllllll the way back in like. February. It's been a long time just sitting on my box waiting for me to do more to it but I finally just got bored of struggling with it and thus here it is. 
> 
> I am apparently on a kiddo kick lately. (No kiddos have been literally kicked, however. Har har, I'm hilarious.)

In reality, Porthos should have known it was coming as soon as d’Artagnan and Constance announced the pregnancy, d’Artagnan giddy and bright-eyed and Constance smiling her wide, dimpling smile, her eyes brighter than he’s ever seen them. He should have known it was coming from the way Aramis shifts beside him, goes quiet before he bursts out in a surprised cry and pulls them both tight into their arms. Porthos is thrilled for them, always knew it would happen eventually for them, and always loved the idea of being a kid’s uncle – the thrill of having someone to care for, without the churning thoughts of — well. He doesn’t need to think about it. 

Aramis, though. Aramis he keeps glancing at all evening. He knows it’s coming. He can see it in the way Aramis smiles and laughs, the way it touches at his eyes, the way his shoulders lift with his laughter. 

Later that night, tucked into bed in their tiny little apartment downtown, Aramis curls into him, traces his fingertips over Porthos’ chest, and looks up at him. 

“Porthos?” he whispers. 

Porthos knows what’s coming and he still isn’t prepared for it, still isn’t prepared for the way his heart leaps up for just one moment. 

“Yeah?” he murmurs, because even in this he would not be able to deny Aramis anything. 

“Do you want to have a child with me?” 

 

-

 

Aramis doesn’t bring it up again in so many words for the following weeks, but whenever Porthos comes home from work on Aramis’ day off, he sees him bent over his computer and clicking away, researching steps and clinics, rattles off to Porthos about egg donors and how to set up a surrogacy, of how they would be involved, how they would do this, how they would do that—

Porthos stays mostly quiet, cracks open a beer from the fridge and leans against the wall, lets Aramis tell him over and over again every little detail, his voice stringing along in his excitement, his eyes a little brighter than before. 

He knows what this means to Aramis. He picks at the label of his beer bottle. 

 

-

 

He’d been lucky to meet Aramis as early as he had. He was fourteen, maybe thirteen, he can’t even remember now – remembers running into Aramis on a walk home from school, on his way to his court-mandated therapy session. Working out his issues – his anger, his reluctance, his frustrations at his group home, at his missing father, his deceased mother – it wasn’t her fault, of course he knew that, but it didn’t stop him from being so _angry._

He remembers clipping shoulders with Aramis, who stumbled. He remembers turning his head and snapping at him to watch where he was going. 

He remembers catching Aramis’ eyes, ready to glare, ready to fight – and Aramis had just blinked at him, rubbed at his shoulder, and smiled at him, saying, “Sorry about that.” 

 

-

 

Aramis is bursting with excitement when he sits down beside Constance about a month in to his research and pursuits – she’s starting to show, starting to glow in that way only pregnant people really can. 

He finishes rattling off his spiel with a small flourish of his hand and a happy grin, “And then of course you’ll be an aunt.” 

She smiles at him, laughing. “And you’ve got it all figured out, then.” 

Aramis looks over towards where Porthos is trying, and failing, to show d’Artagnan how to properly prepare a duck filet. He’s scouring the breast and Aramis smiles to himself at the way Porthos nods his head to d’Artagnan’s words, bumps his shoulder to his. 

“He’ll be a good father,” Aramis decides, and his voice goes soft and wistful with longing. It’s so close to him now – it’s been so long, far too long. He can still remember being eighteen and in love, holding Isabelle and then, and then—

“That much is clear,” Constance agrees and turns her head to call out to d’Artagnan, “Just let Porthos do it all. You’re a lost cause.” 

Ever the gracious host, d’Artagnan bristles and sputters. “I can figure it out!” 

Constance rolls her eyes, but there’s no heat to it, just a warm kind of friendliness. Her hand presses to her stomach once, an unconscious gesture, before she turns back towards Aramis. “And you’re really sure that’s what you two want to do? I can’t imagine how much work and time it’ll take… And the cost—”

“Well, we can’t always do it the… old-fashioned way as certain people we know,” he teases and waggles his eyebrows, and snorts out a laugh when Constance slaps him for his troubles – an old game between them. 

 

-

 

Aramis sits down across from him. “So,” he says without preamble and Porthos breathes out slowly and turns to look at him. “We should… discuss who we’d like to consider being a donor.” 

Porthos looks down and breathes out. “You really want it to be someone we know?” 

“Well,” Aramis says with a small shrug. “It’s recommended it’s family or friends just because the legal processes can be so difficult and it’s easier if you have that connection already. Or it can be worse. There’s controversy, but we’ll be fine. Our friends are wonderful. But of course we can get a donor for the surrogacy if we can’t agree or no one wants to donate.” 

Porthos nods absently. When he looks up again, Aramis is looking at him expectantly – perhaps a little fearfully. Porthos dry swallows, feels a thump down low in his gut and forces himself to breathe. Aramis has a folder in front of him – he’s been researching, he’s been taking notes, he _really wants this_. 

“Neither of us have sisters,” Porthos reminds him, which is a stupid thing to say. 

Aramis is nodding. “It’d be the best way to have the child be related to _both_ of us, but – well. According to some of the websites I looked at, they have the sperm mixed and try to take with a few of the eggs, to see what sticks it out before insemination. Sometimes you even get twins! Then we don’t know who the father is.” 

“At least until it’s born,” Porthos says with a wry smile and Aramis grins at him stupidly and steps his foot down on top of Porthos’ underneath the table. 

It all sounds too clinical, but Porthos just focuses on the way Aramis smiles, the way his eyes light up as he explains the process, as he starts to picture holding a child of his own. He can’t deny him that. 

“So,” Aramis says, cheerfully. “Who should we ask? Constance is a little busy at the moment, so she’s out.” 

Porthos bites back the suggestion of waiting until Constance has her children, and then maybe later, before just springing it on her. But he doubts Aramis wants to wait now that the idea is in his head. 

“There’s Alice,” he says as dryly as he’s able and doesn’t know why he says it. 

Aramis’ smile slips completely and Porthos watches the way his shoulders tense up, the way he grips his folder – and Porthos instantly regrets it, the flash of jealousy in Aramis’ face not worth the dismissal. 

“I was thinking perhaps Adele,” Aramis continues as if Porthos hadn’t just spoken. But his mood looks soured, unpleasant. 

Porthos reaches out and touches his hand. “I’m not serious about asking Alice. Too complicated.” 

Aramis sniffs disdainfully but doesn’t draw his hand away. “She would be lucky to have a child with you!” 

Porthos thinks of Alice, beautiful and still loved even after all these years – but their separation had been a quiet, understated thing, something that had hurt at the time but had slowly dulled into a small ache. She still keeps in touch sometimes, but mostly for Aramis’ benefit, he tries not to think of her too often. 

“Adele could work,” Porthos agrees. 

“Not to be uncouth and start discussing our friends by their features but Adele’s eyes are beautiful,” Aramis says with a dreamy little sigh. “And her smile . And her—”

“Alright, alright,” Porthos interrupts with a small laugh that’s only the slightest bit towards the edge of hysterical. 

“Or Flea,” Aramis asks, sounding cautious. 

Porthos snorts at the mere thought. Flea never did warm up to Aramis – mostly because for the first few days they’d known each other, Aramis had called her by her real name rather than by her nickname and she’d eventually snapped at him to call her Flea or stop talking. Aramis, always desperate to make friends, started calling her Flea every other sentence until she did eventually tell him to shut up. 

Aramis gives him a helpless smile. “I thought it’d be a cute idea.” 

Aramis continues listing possibilities, weighing out the options of whether it was worth approaching the particular woman or not about a possible egg donation. It still sounds too clinical, too withdrawn from what they’re really asking – Porthos worries for the consequences, for the possibilities it would offer. Aramis is lost in thoughts of what possible children would look like – Flea’s hair, Adele’s eyes, Constance’s nose, Porthos’ dimples, his smile. 

 

-

 

“If it turns out to be a girl,” Aramis whispers while they’re tucked into bed, Aramis’ cheek pillowed against his chest, his fingers tracing over one of Porthos’ scars, “I thought… Marie would be a good name.” 

Porthos stops breathing for a moment, his throat clumping up, and he doesn’t have to say anything to know that Aramis understands what that would mean to him. He doesn’t cry, hasn’t cried about his mother in a very long time, but he knows that Aramis must hear the way his heart hammers out beneath his chest. 

Aramis leans up and kisses him. 

 

-

 

“Isn’t this a cute outfit?” Aramis asks as he holds up a footsie pajama onesie with a huge grin. They’re shopping for baby shower gifts for Constance and d’Artagnan, but naturally Aramis walking through the baby store can only see possibilities for his and Porthos’ future child. 

His and Porthos’ future child. Just thinking of it makes him feel giddy. He’s set up a meeting for a consultation with the clinic he’d found through extensive research over the last few months, has gotten in touch with one of Athos’ colleagues to search out a good lawyer in regards to reproductive law, has written down the meeting date on every available surface and programmed it into Porthos’ phone – he’s ready for this. 

Now if only Porthos weren’t looking at Aramis holding this onesie like he’d just punched him in the gut. And not a happy punch. He looks _pained_. He’s looked vaguely pained ever since Aramis first brought up the idea. He’d written it off at first as just nervousness on Porthos’ part, assumed that Porthos was just as excited as he is. 

Now, though, he’s staring at the onesie like it is the bane of his existence. He finally manages to wrangle his mouth into something like a smile and he says, “It’s cute.” 

“Maybe a different color?” Aramis asks hopefully, desperate for some kind of positive reaction from Porthos, desperate for _anything_. There is a small curl of dread that’s lurching in his gut that he’s been bitterly ignoring for close to a month now. 

 

-

 

He tells himself he’s imagining things. But then he has to cancel their consultation because something comes up at work, and when he tells Porthos as much, he swears he sees a look of relief on his face. 

 

-

 

“Are you worried about the cost?” Aramis asks one evening. He’s on the internet again, reading over some of the steps. They have their meeting tomorrow – their consultation that got rescheduled. 

Porthos shrugs. He hasn’t really thought about that part in particular – knows that it might take some time and a lot of overtime on Porthos’ part, but he’s willing to do it, especially if it makes Aramis happy. They’ll need to get a bigger place, too, to make room for a baby’s room. 

He’s scrubbing at some pots in the sink, staring down at the soap and the water and trying to focus on that – fights back against the images of the last days he ever saw his mother, sick and bedridden, touching his face and telling him he is precious. He fights back against the images of too many houses, too many foster parents, too many people who didn’t work out or couldn’t work out or wanted to work out and just didn’t. He fights back against the images of that day when he first bumps hard into Aramis, glares at him, running away from a day that was shit just like all the others, running away and hating that he was running. 

He tries to linger on the image of Aramis’ smile then – still small and tentative, not quite grown into his front teeth yet, simple and gentle – not judging him, not looking down on him, just a random stranger in the street he’ll never see again. 

What comes instead is the image of after he left Aramis that first day they met, when he returned ‘home’, having missed his therapy session, seeing a couple who wanted him to do better and didn’t believe he could, who held onto him because they wanted to fix him but didn’t give him what he wanted. He told them the first week he came to their house never to hug him and they listened. They never did. 

“Porthos?” Aramis asks and Porthos hasn’t realized that Aramis has moved until that moment and he startles, dropping the sponge. 

“Hey, yeah,” Porthos says, turns towards him with a small smile. “Sorry, what did you say?” 

“Are you okay?” Aramis asks and Porthos knows it’s not really what Aramis wants to ask. He looks at him and says, “You’ve been acting strangely ever since…”

“Don’t worry about it,” Porthos tells him, offers him a shaky smile. “Just got lost in my thoughts.”

 

-

 

“Porthos,” Aramis starts. 

“Hey,” Porthos greets, drops a kiss on his mouth, and turns his head. “Gotta run. Love you.” 

 

-

 

Aramis stares down at his folder of research, of ideas, of swatches of different paint colors for a baby’s room, a small, tentative list of babies names (Marie and Isaac at the top of his list), and he thinks his hands are never going to stop shaking. His gut is all twisted up. 

He thinks of Isabelle, looking at him and recoiling from him in the hospital bed. “Go away,” she’d said at the time. “I don’t want this.”

They’d been young, too young. She’d barely gotten into the first trimester before the child was lost. He wonders if he can even call it a child, if it was only a clump of cells. But it was still something. He’d been ready, he’d wanted it – he’d wanted to marry her, too, he’d wanted so many things. 

Isabelle had broken up with him then, avoided all his calls, eventually moved away. He has no idea where she is now. 

He’d spend that night sobbing into Porthos’ shoulder, letting Porthos hold him – needing that comfort, unable to handle anything but that. He’d blamed himself. He still blames himself. He remembers sobbing into Porthos’ neck and Porthos telling him it was going to be alright, still a child himself and unsure how to handle children and pregnancy and miscarriages, but knowing he needed to comfort Aramis. 

They’d kissed for the first time a week later, underneath a bus stop eave while waiting for the city bus to show up and get them downtown. It’d been raining at the time. Porthos was watching the rain and Aramis was staring at his feet. He wasn’t any better, still felt too waylaid to be anything other than a husk. 

He remembers looking up when Porthos hummed out quietly, watching the way the water hit against the glass wall blocking them from the road and the puddles splashing up from cars. 

“You look pretty in the rain,” Porthos said, because he was kind and gentle and had wanted Aramis to smile. 

And strange, it had made Aramis smile. Helplessly, overwhelmed with such simple kindness. He’d grabbed Porthos by the collar and hauled him down, kissed him right there underneath their bus stop. 

They hadn’t missed their bus – it was a sloppy and stupid kind of kiss. But when Aramis tells the story years, decades, later, he likes to say that they got swept up in each other and missed several buses in favor of making up for lost time because they loved each other before their hormones knew what love was. 

He remembers pulling back from that kiss and smiling shyly up at Porthos, waiting for Porthos to leave and hate him. Instead, Porthos just grinned at him, just as young and foolish and stupid, and touched at his cheek. He remembers, clearly, what Porthos said then: “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.” 

Aramis remembers, five years later, when Porthos pressed up against him in their bed, threaded their fingers together, and kissed Aramis until he could see stars. He remembers Porthos whispering into his ear, “I will always love you.”

Now, so many years past those times, his hands are shaking and he’s staring down at his folder. 

He stands up, his knees wobbly, tries to tell himself this can wait, tries to tell himself that he doesn’t have to push it – and yet he does, he has to. Their consultation is tomorrow and he _has_ to say something. 

He marches out into their living room, where Porthos is nursing a drink and reading through some news articles on his phone. 

“Porthos,” Aramis says firmly and waits until Porthos looks up. “I need to ask—”

“I have to—” Porthos begins, looks like he’s going to sit up and run away again because he’s caught sight of Aramis’ folder.

Aramis throws the folder down hard upon the coffee table. Some of the pages slip out. He doesn’t care. 

“We’re talking about this,” Aramis says, firmly, and he isn’t going to take no for an answer, he isn’t going to let Porthos shy away from this. His hands shake a little and he tries to hold them still. “You’ve been – you’ve been resisting at every turn. Don’t think I haven’t noticed it.”

Porthos ducks his head, starts peeling at the label of his beer bottle and refuses to look at him. That enough is damning – Porthos so rarely lies, so rarely shies away from what he’s thinking. But this entire process has been only that and Aramis can’t help it, he can’t help but trot out all his horror scenarios: it’s finally happened, Porthos is tired of him, Porthos no longer loves him, this is where Porthos will finally leave him. 

Porthos isn’t the type to lie, he isn’t the type to conceal. Aramis has always loved that about him. He’ll always love him even if Porthos stops, even if Porthos leaves, even if he never sees Porthos again – even if Porthos curls into himself and looks away from him, tells him to leave, tells him he _never wanted this, it’s better this way, you never would have made a good father, we never would have been good for each other—_

“What is it, then?” Aramis asks, just on the touch of hysterical. “It’s – you won’t talk to me. Do you just – why are you resisting this so much?”

If he insists, will Porthos leave? If he insists, will Porthos stop loving him? 

Porthos looks vastly uncomfortable and doesn’t look up from where his nail is digging into the label. Aramis can see that his hands are shaking, too, can see the way heat curls up his cheeks and touches at the tips of his ears – shame, anger, Aramis isn’t sure. His throat works as if he’s going to speak but then he keeps quiet. 

Aramis’ heart drops down hard into his stomach. He swallows down hard and asks the question he’s been afraid to ask: 

“Is it me? Do you just not want kids with me?” 

He tries to sound angry, dismissive – and it just comes out quiet, fearful, hitting at what’s been niggling at the back of his mind during this entire process. Not that Porthos is resisting the idea of a child, but that he is resisting _him_ with a child. That he could never want a child with Aramis. That he could never truly want Aramis. 

That’s what gets Porthos to snap his head up and stare at him as if such a thought has never even occurred to him. “What the fuck makes you think it’s that?”

“Because you won’t talk to me!” Aramis snaps back – and finds that he’s on the edge of shouting and he can’t remember the last time he ever raised his voice with Porthos, can’t remember the last time he was this lost and confused. 

He sits down heavily, across from Porthos, who continues to stare at him in shock. 

“Aramis,” he begins.

“What am I supposed to think?” Aramis asks, voice cracking. “You won’t tell me what’s wrong. I thought – why did you agree to this if it wasn’t what you wanted? Why did you—” 

Hands definitely shaking now, Porthos sets down his trembling beer bottle and presses his hands to his face – and shudders out a quiet, pained breath. 

“Porthos,” Aramis whispers, stands up and moves so he’s sitting beside him instead – too far away, too far away even if Porthos hates him, even if Porthos hates the idea of a child with him. 

He’s tried, he’s tried so much – to be a good partner, to be a good man, to be worthy of Porthos. To be someone who could be a good father, who could be a good person in Porthos’ life – who deserves the world, who deserves a beautiful, loving wife whom Porthos would never doubt her parenthood to. He swallows down thickly and touches at Porthos’ knee, waits until Porthos drops his hands and looks at him – up close, he looks as tired as Aramis feels. 

“Please,” Aramis whispers. “Talk to me.” 

Porthos looks at him for a long moment before he heaves out a breath. “I don’t know the first thing about being a father,” Porthos admits, miserably. “I – I’ve got no way of knowing if I’d be any good.”

Aramis blinks at him, utterly shocked. He waits, as if Porthos will say more. But Porthos is looking at him expectantly, as if that is the answer to all of this, as if it is somehow a doubt that only Porthos can possess. 

“What?” he manages to press out. 

Porthos shrugs, looking up at him helplessly. “… Maybe I’d just be like my own.” 

“Porthos,” Aramis whispers out in shock, moves closer to him still, lifting his hand from his knee to touch his face instead. “ _Porthos._ ” 

Porthos gives him a wobbly little look and then clenches his eyes shut, offering a tentative, if pained, smile. “I know what you’ll say.” 

Aramis doesn’t disappoint. “ _You_ could never be like your father.” His throat is working, swallowing down thickly. “Why would – how could you ever be a man who’d walk out on the people he loves? How could you—”

“Maybe I’m more like him than I think,” Porthos says, miserable, shakes his head. “I know it’s stupid, what the fuck, but it’s—”

Aramis shakes his head, vehement, and leans in to kiss Porthos hard on the mouth. Porthos does kiss him back after making a small, uncertain sound – touches his cheek and just folds into him. 

When he breaks the kiss, he gives him a helpless look. “What makes you think I’d be any good?”

“You love kids,” Porthos says after giving him a look that can only be described as _honey, please._

Aramis shakes his head, blinks back the onslaught of tears that prickle at the backs of his eyes. They both know what Aramis is thinking of, but Porthos gives him the benefit of not mentioning her or the lost child by name. 

“Porthos, I know you’d be wonderful.” His voice sounds too wobbly. “Just – please don’t leave me.” 

It’s Porthos’ turn to stare at him in shock. “Who the hell said anything about _leaving_ you?” Aramis says nothing, but a moment later Porthos’ expression clears and he breathes out as he seems to realize. “Oh,” he whispers. “Shit. Aramis.” 

“I’m an idiot, I know I—”

“You are a complete fool,” Porthos whispers, cups his face and presses their foreheads together. “I love you. I’m not leaving you, you idiot.” 

Aramis hiccups a small, relieved laugh – he can’t help it. He holds him tight. “That just… that just proves my point. You are the kindest man I’ve ever known. You are _nothing_ like your father.” 

Porthos says nothing.

Aramis opens his eyes and traces his fingertips over his jaw. “Is that what this is about? You don’t think you’d be a good father?” 

Porthos breathes out. 

Aramis adds, “You are good and you are gentle. Any child would be safe in your arms. Any child would be lucky to call you their father. I know that. There is no man anywhere that I would rather be beside – there is no one else I’d rather be father to my children. _Our_ children.” 

Porthos gives a wobbly little smile and pulls back, taking Aramis’ hands in his and squeezing. “It isn’t… just that.” 

“What, then?” Aramis presses. If they’re talking, they might as well get it all out in the open – they’ve spent far too many weeks toeing around it. 

“I just – I think about where I grew up,” Porthos admits. Aramis makes a soft sound – he can remember the last years of Porthos’ time in the foster system, before he turned eighteen and that was that. Porthos breathes out, slowly. “All those kids – all of them too old to be adoptable anymore, you know? Some of them are angry some of them are sad, a lot of them – it just… I don’t feel right about leaving them.” 

Aramis blinks at him once – then twice. “Porthos?” 

“I want – I want whatever you want,” Porthos tells him hurriedly, squeezes his hands. “It isn’t – if you want a child, of course I want one, too. Of course I want a family with you. But it – I don’t know… It—”

“You’re thinking of adoption,” Aramis clarifies and Porthos nods, eyes lowering. “Oh,” he whispers, realizes the lump lodged in his throat is slowly dissipating and leaning in to press his forehead to his again. “How can you think you’re not a good man?” 

“It isn’t about being good or not,” Porthos whispers. “I wish – I wish that two people who really wanted a kid, if maybe they’d have given me a second look. I wish I could just – those kids should have someone do right by them.” 

Aramis closes his eyes, fights back against the tears he feels prickling still at his eyes, and nods. “Let’s do it, then.” 

Porthos stares at him for a moment and asks, “What, just like that?” 

“Just like that,” Aramis agrees. “Do you want a child with me? Do you want to adopt a child with me?” 

Porthos gives him a wobbly smile and says, “With all my heart.” 

“Then I’ll call Doctor Lemay right now,” Aramis decides, kisses Porthos again and again, and then stands to place the phone call to cancel their second and final consultation attempt. 

 

\- 

 

It is a long process, but in the end, Aramis and Porthos get their family. Their eldest comes to them at eight years old. Their first child, then, isn’t named Marie but rather Jasmeen. And several years later, they adopt a second child, a boy named Vincent, at twelve years old. Younger ones come later, the twins Fleur and Elise at age four, a young boy, Gavin, at age seven. 

Aramis, of course, is beside himself even with just one – but as the numbers grow, as their family grows, Aramis can’t regret the decision. Porthos has more discipline with the kids than Aramis ever could, but they both cry at the appropriate moments when their kids accomplish what they set out to do. 

There are scuffles and there are difficulties. Their fifth child, Natalii, gets into trouble at school and never quite recovers from it, first suspended and eventually expelled – brought to court-mandated therapy much like Porthos was at her age. Porthos loses his patience once and then withdraws, frustrated at himself for his reaction – leaving Aramis to work with her and her anger even as she spits out at him. 

When Jasmeen wants to meet her birth parents, have to tell her that hers was a closed adoption, she withdraws for days and Aramis finds Porthos later wiping at his eyes as he tries to organize his desk and pretend he isn’t overwhelmed with his own disappointment and sadness. 

“She’ll always wonder,” he says, his voice thick and Aramis curls into him. 

When their youngest, Henri, comes back from meeting his mother for the first time, his just shakes his head and takes Aramis and Porthos’ hands in his and says, quite firmly, “I’m glad you’re my parents.”

Aramis never quite gets the hang of working with natural hair, but Porthos is an expert at braiding and Fleur, Elise, and Jasmeen all appreciate his efforts and his attentions growing up. And where Aramis lacks proper hairstyling aside from Gavin’s unruly red hair and Vincent’s buzzed short hair in general, Aramis compensates by knowing exactly what each of his kids’ favorite colors are and what styles suit them best. 

When, years later, Aramis meets and falls in love with Anne, and holds his youngest son for the first time – named Isaac, to finally put his baby list into use, there are no words to describe that feeling of elation. He loves all his children, always has and always will – but it is the first time he’s held an infant, and he cries for days when the others can’t see, not wanting them to feel neglected or unloved or unwanted. 

Porthos holds down the fort well, hugs them all extra. And when Aramis comes back from the hospital he hugs all of them in turn, even if Natalii initially pushes him away. 

Their children grow up – make poor romantic decisions (made worse from Porthos’ glowering, intimidating stance whenever a daughter brings home an undesirable man or woman), make even poorer tattoo and piercing decisions. There’s school, there’s work, there’s boyfriends and girlfriends, there’s pregnancy scares of their own and job promotions and emotional crises. There’s everything and anything they could have possibly imagined. 

And years and years later, after Henri, their youngest, finally moves out to his own apartment with his girlfriend, Aramis spends that first night when it’s just the two of them staring up at the ceiling and remarking on how quiet and still it is.

He threads his fingers with Porthos’ in the dark and asks the question he already knows the answer to, “Do you ever regret it all?”

“Not for a single second,” Porthos answers him and lifts their hands so he can kiss over his knuckles.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/), as always.


End file.
